I was exhausted.
Not just tired, but that heavy, full-body drop where everything in me felt dimmed out and slow. My limbs thick. My thoughts dull. The kind of exhaustion that comes after too much vigilance, too many headlines, too much bracing against a world that keeps naming you as a problem.
It was Transgender Day of Visibility, and the weight of it all had finally caught up with me. The constant churn of anti-trans rhetoric lands in the body whether I want it to or not. It accumulates. It presses down.
By the time I got to the park, I could feel how far gone I was.
The trail was soft with dirt and limestone, shaded by oak and juniper. The air carried that damp, green smell of early spring in Central Texas. Water moved steadily through the creek, low and clear over pale rock, catching light in fractured glints.
I sat down near the edge and felt the first tears come from finally letting myself register how exhausted I actually was.
It started in my throat. A tightness, then a burn. My chest followed, caving slightly inward, breath catching high and shallow before dropping lower on the exhale. My eyes stung, then overflowed. Quiet, steady tears.
Grief in the body feels like weight and emptiness at the same time.
Like something pressing down on the sternum while everything inside goes hollow.
I let it move. By witnessing. By waiting. By breathing in the sensations and letting them radiate on the inhale.
And letting them go, letting them settle and subside on the exhale.
Inhale grief.
Exhale relief.
Water. Trees. Dog. Wind. Sound.
“I’m so exhausted,” I said to the creek. Tears flowed down my face.
I was exhausted.
Not just tired, but that heavy, full-body drop where everything in me felt dimmed out and slow. My limbs thick. My thoughts dull. The kind of exhaustion that comes after too much vigilance, too many headlines, too much bracing against a world that keeps naming you as a problem.
It was Transgender Day of Visibility, and the weight of it all had finally caught up with me. The constant churn of anti-trans rhetoric lands in the body whether I want it to or not. It accumulates. It presses down.
By the time I got to the park, I could feel how far gone I was.
The trail was soft with dirt and limestone, shaded by oak and juniper. The air carried that damp, green smell of early spring in Central Texas. Water moved steadily through the creek, low and clear over pale rock, catching light in fractured glints.
I sat down near the edge and felt the first tears come from finally letting myself register how exhausted I actually was.
It started in my throat. A tightness, then a burn. My chest followed, caving slightly inward, breath catching high and shallow before dropping lower on the exhale. My eyes stung, then overflowed. Quiet, steady tears.
Grief in the body feels like weight and emptiness at the same time.
Like something pressing down on the sternum while everything inside goes hollow.
I let it move. By witnessing. By waiting. By breathing in the sensations and letting them radiate on the inhale.
And letting them go, letting them settle and subside on the exhale.
Inhale grief.
Exhale relief.
Water. Trees. Dog. Wind. Sound.
“I’m so exhausted,” I said to the creek. Tears flowed down my face.
It was Transgender Day of Visibility, and the weight of it all had finally caught up with me. The constant churn of anti-trans rhetoric lands in the body whether I want it to or not. It accumulates. It presses down.
By the time I got to the park, I could feel how far gone I was.
The trail was soft with dirt and limestone, shaded by oak and juniper. The air carried that damp, green smell of early spring in Central Texas. Water moved steadily through the creek, low and clear over pale rock, catching light in fractured glints.
I sat down near the edge and felt the first tears come from finally letting myself register how exhausted I actually was.
It started in my throat. A tightness, then a burn. My chest followed, caving slightly inward, breath catching high and shallow before dropping lower on the exhale. My eyes stung, then overflowed. Quiet, steady tears.
Grief in the body feels like weight and emptiness at the same time.
Like something pressing down on the sternum while everything inside goes hollow.
I let it move. By witnessing. By waiting. By breathing in the sensations and letting them radiate on the inhale.
And letting them go, letting them settle and subside on the exhale.
Inhale grief.
Exhale relief.
Water. Trees. Dog. Wind. Sound.
“I’m so exhausted,” I said to the creek. Tears flowed down my face.
And then my mind started moving again.
The Epstein files.
I could feel the agitation rise in my body.
Heat in my chest.
Jaw tightening.
A surge of energy that had nowhere to go.
Because this is what masculinity, under patriarchy, does when it’s unexamined and unchecked:
It extracts.
It exploits.
It protects itself.
It closes ranks around power.
And years later, the system still bends toward protecting the men at the center of it.
I don’t get to pretend I’m outside of that.
I’m read as a man, even though I have been raised and socialized as a woman.
I’m in a position of privilege, even as my basic human rights as a transgender person are being systematically stripped away by the current administration.
I look like the very thing that is oppressing me: a white cis man. Which means I am, whether I like it or not, in proximity to that power.
Responsible for how I carry it.
Responsible for how I don’t replicate harm.
My dog was moving in and out of the creek while I sat there. Completely unbothered by any of this.
He sprinted along the bank, splashing through the water, chasing flashes of fish that darted away before he could reach them. He grabbed a stick, chewed it to pulp, dropped it, and found another. His brown eyes were soft, bright, almost luminous with contentment.
No hesitation. No self-consciousness. No need to prove anything.
Just full, uncomplicated presence.
Watching him, something in me unclenched.
There is no point in trying to prove who I am to anyone else.No amount of effort will give me control over how I’m perceived by others.
What’s left, then, is how I live.
How I inhabit my body.
How I relate to the power I carry.
How I choose to show up in my relationships.
The creek kept moving. The light shifted through the trees. My breath deepened, almost without me noticing.
I watched him play with abandon, and my breath shifted again.
I could feel the agitation rise in my body.
Heat in my chest.
Jaw tightening.
A surge of energy that had nowhere to go.
Because this is what masculinity, under patriarchy, does when it’s unexamined and unchecked:
It extracts.
It exploits.
It protects itself.
It closes ranks around power.
And years later, the system still bends toward protecting the men at the center of it.
I don’t get to pretend I’m outside of that.
I’m read as a man, even though I have been raised and socialized as a woman.
I’m in a position of privilege, even as my basic human rights as a transgender person are being systematically stripped away by the current administration.
I look like the very thing that is oppressing me: a white cis man. Which means I am, whether I like it or not, in proximity to that power.
Responsible for how I carry it.
Responsible for how I don’t replicate harm.
My dog was moving in and out of the creek while I sat there. Completely unbothered by any of this.
He sprinted along the bank, splashing through the water, chasing flashes of fish that darted away before he could reach them. He grabbed a stick, chewed it to pulp, dropped it, and found another. His brown eyes were soft, bright, almost luminous with contentment.
No hesitation. No self-consciousness. No need to prove anything.
Just full, uncomplicated presence.
Watching him, something in me unclenched.
There is no point in trying to prove who I am to anyone else.No amount of effort will give me control over how I’m perceived by others.
What’s left, then, is how I live.
How I inhabit my body.
How I relate to the power I carry.
How I choose to show up in my relationships.
The creek kept moving. The light shifted through the trees. My breath deepened, almost without me noticing.
I watched him play with abandon, and my breath shifted again.
The message felt simple, almost disarmingly so:
The point of all of this is to enjoy my life.To be authentic in my joy.
Inhale—cool air moving through my nose.
Exhale—longer now, chest softening, ribs expanding.
Then the thoughts came back, but slower.
There is no point in trying to prove who I am to anyone else.
No amount of precision, explanation, or care will give me control over how I’m perceived.
Intent doesn’t override impact.
And shame.
I could feel how quickly it moved in my body. A hot river of sensation plowing through my system.
Heat in my face.
A pulling inward.
The urge to collapse, to disappear, or to turn on myself.
Shame as the fight response, turned towards the self.
How often do we feel shame when we make mistakes or we feel that we’re not being seen as our best selves? How often do we self-flagellate so that our story of failure becomes more important than being accountable to the harm that we’ve perpetuated?
In this way, shame breaks trust.
It makes it harder to stay present. Harder to listen. Harder to repair. Harder to be accountable.
And repair and accountability is where masculinity lives in integrity.
It is the response that exists in the word responsibility. It is the integrity in the transparent humanness of leadership.
I sat there with my feet in the water, feeling the cold current move around my ankles, and something settled.
Inhale—cool air moving through my nose.
Exhale—longer now, chest softening, ribs expanding.
Then the thoughts came back, but slower.
There is no point in trying to prove who I am to anyone else.
No amount of precision, explanation, or care will give me control over how I’m perceived.
Intent doesn’t override impact.
And shame.
I could feel how quickly it moved in my body. A hot river of sensation plowing through my system.
Heat in my face.
A pulling inward.
The urge to collapse, to disappear, or to turn on myself.
Shame as the fight response, turned towards the self.
How often do we feel shame when we make mistakes or we feel that we’re not being seen as our best selves? How often do we self-flagellate so that our story of failure becomes more important than being accountable to the harm that we’ve perpetuated?
In this way, shame breaks trust.
It makes it harder to stay present. Harder to listen. Harder to repair. Harder to be accountable.
And repair and accountability is where masculinity lives in integrity.
It is the response that exists in the word responsibility. It is the integrity in the transparent humanness of leadership.
I sat there with my feet in the water, feeling the cold current move around my ankles, and something settled.
All relationships move at the speed of trust.
Not just trust in others.
Trust in myself.
Trust that I can stay in my body when things get charged.
Trust that I can hold the impact I have without collapsing into shame.
Trust that I can be accountable without disappearing.
My dog bounded back toward me, dropped a half-chewed stick at my feet, then looked up. He was hopeful, expectant, completely at ease in his own wanting.
I laughed, quietly.
The creek kept moving. The light shifted through the trees.
Nothing out there had changed.
The systems are still intact.
The rhetoric is still loud.
But my body was different.
Less collapsed.
Trust in myself.
Trust that I can stay in my body when things get charged.
Trust that I can hold the impact I have without collapsing into shame.
Trust that I can be accountable without disappearing.
My dog bounded back toward me, dropped a half-chewed stick at my feet, then looked up. He was hopeful, expectant, completely at ease in his own wanting.
I laughed, quietly.
The creek kept moving. The light shifted through the trees.
Nothing out there had changed.
The systems are still intact.
The rhetoric is still loud.
But my body was different.
Less collapsed.
More here.
My dog shook, spraying me with water and jolting me out of my reverie. He stuck his wet muzzle in my face, poking his tongue out with an affectionate threat of doggy kisses.
I laughed and squished his damp cheeks with my palms, and then stood, walking back towards the trail. He trailed behind me, present and trusting. He knew that I knew the way back home.
And now, so did I.
My dog shook, spraying me with water and jolting me out of my reverie. He stuck his wet muzzle in my face, poking his tongue out with an affectionate threat of doggy kisses.
I laughed and squished his damp cheeks with my palms, and then stood, walking back towards the trail. He trailed behind me, present and trusting. He knew that I knew the way back home.
And now, so did I.
Connect with Kelly
Privacy Policy | Terms of Use
© 2026 Viasomatic, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Viasomatic® and the Viasomatic® Method are the property of Viasomatic, LLC.